by John Gwynne
Evnis saw the tower, part of a larger hold with a palisaded wall around it. A figure moved along the wall, even from this distance the black and gold of his cloak catching the sun. Closer, about a hundred paces to the left, stood an old thick-trunked tree. A horse was cropping grass before it. It was saddled, but riderless.
Evnis opened his mouth to speak but Braith put a finger to his mouth, then pointed.
Something was moving in the long grass ahead of them, a ripple that went against the breeze.
They sat and watched, the sun sliding across the sky. Sweat dripped into Evnis’ eyes. His back muscles burned, slowly began to scream at him.
Just when he thought he could stand it no longer a man stood in the long grass, back to them. He raised a bow, pointing it ahead and drew an arrow.
Braith gasped, a name hissed venomously as quiet as the breeze. ‘Camlin.’
Evnis saw the huntsman reach for his own quiver of arrows, at the same time slipping his strung bow from his back. Evnis reached out and gripped his wrist.
Braith stared at him, and for a moment Evnis saw murder in the huntsman’s eyes.
Evnis shook his head. He mouthed a word.
Edana.
Slowly, incrementally he saw the commitment to violence leave Braith’s face.
Then Camlin was moving forwards, another figure emerging from the grass a little further ahead. Evnis recognized him instantly.
Halion. He had changed. Looked exhausted. Leaner, definitely, his face all sharp bones, his beard ragged, but still he had that look. Those grey eyes that could stare you down, calm, terrifyingly so, in the face of fury. That was why Evnis had determined to turn his brother against him. Together Halion and Conall were unstoppable, two parts of the same whirlwind, the calm and the fury. Separate, they were just men. Dangerous, still, but not unstoppable.
Halion and Camlin embraced, a silent camaraderie passing between them that stirred up anger in Evnis’ belly. He could not say why.
They parted, grinning like fools at one another. Words were exchanged, too low for Evnis to hear, and then Camlin was dragging Halion through the long grass, up the slope towards the tower shouting at the guards on the wall.
What are they doing? They’ll be seen.
Then the word Camlin was shouting coalesced inside Evnis’ head, finally making sense.
Vonn.
A man in a black and gold cloak was leaning over the timber wall. As Camlin and Halion climbed the hill the man on the wall vaulted over, landed agilely with knees bent.
Suddenly, like a candle lit in a dark room, Evnis knew him.
My son.
He was tall, a shock of golden blond hair on his head, a neatly trimmed beard with streaks of red amongst the gold. He ran the dozen strides between him and Halion and hugged the older warrior, grinning and laughing.
Evnis stood up from his hiding place in the grass, shook off grasping hands from Braith, cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled his son’s name.
‘VONN.’
The three men on the hill turned and looked at him, and for a frozen moment the world dimmed, seemed to form a tunnel to the exclusion of all else between Evnis and Vonn as they stared at one another. Then Braith swore and stood beside him, his bow drawn.
‘Damn you to hell,’ the huntsman spat at Evnis, then loosed. His arrow sped towards the three men, Camlin moving first, shoving the other two so that Braith’s arrow slammed thrumming into the timber wall.
A heartbeat later an arrow came back at them, Rafe dragging Evnis to the ground, the arrow hissing by frighteningly close. There was shouting from around the tower wall, figures appearing from the south. Figures with swords and spears in their hands.
Braith and Camlin were launching arrows at one another. Evnis caught fleeting glimpses of Halion and Vonn running along the wall, away.
Away. At the same time other warriors were moving closer, a dozen at least, some of them already wading into the long grass on the hill slope.
Evnis reached for Glyn’s horn that he’d tied to his belt and put it to his lips, blew hard, a long wavering blast issuing from it. Men paused all over the hill.
A sound filled the silence, a distant rumble. Heads turned, staring northwards to see Glyn and a hundred warriors riding out of the tattered fringes of the Baglun. Then an older warrior with rust-coloured hair spilling from an iron helm was shouting, giving orders to those on the hill. They retreated, heading southwards. Before Evnis knew what he was doing his feet were moving and he was running, up the hill, wading through the long grass. Voices called after him but he ignored them, eyes fixed on the back of his fleeing son.
Behind him the rumble of his approaching warband was growing louder, but not loud enough to reach him in the next hundred heartbeats. For a moment he considered stopping, retreating, the sensible part of his mind screaming at him to listen, but then he caught another glimpse of Vonn, staring back at him briefly.
He drew his sword and carried on.
Two warriors came at him, and a small thread of fear squirmed through his belly. In a few heartbeats he appraised them – both younger men, lean and hungry for glory, their armour consisting of little more than leather vests and thick armbands, whereas Evnis wore a coat of mail that hung almost to his knees. It was making him sweat but he was glad of it.
They probably do not know who I am, or more of them would have turned to take my head. I am a fool. He started to regret his decision.
One came straight at him, the other circling to his left. Evnis blocked an overhead blow, deflecting it so that his opponent’s swing pulled him off balance. Evnis turned his block into a cut, one of the first moves he’d been taught in the Rowan Field, and to his surprise he felt his blade connect. It cut into the back of his opponent, not deep, the leather vest taking the brunt of the blow, but nevertheless there was blood on Evnis’ blade and he felt a rush of elation. The young warrior stumbled forwards.
I will do this.
There was movement at the edge of his vision and Evnis twisted to see the other warrior swinging at his neck. Evnis staggered clumsily, partially catching the blow on his blade. A pain lanced through his wrist and his opponent’s blade crashed through his defence, glancing off his shoulder, the chainmail turning it, his arm going numb. Evnis attempted to pivot, desperately trying to summon the sword forms he’d learned with so much dedication from the Field, so easily done when someone with sharp iron in their fist wasn’t trying to kill you. The hard grin on his enemy’s face didn’t make him feel any more confident. Somehow he managed to avoid the next blow, grabbed a wrist and then their limbs were tangling and they were falling, rolling down the slope. They came to a halt with Evnis on his back, his opponent sitting on his chest.
This isn’t going as I’d imagined.
They’d both lost their swords in the tumble, but the man sitting on his chest had at some point pulled a knife from his belt. He raised it high, Evnis struggling futilely, his arms pinned.
An arrow slammed into the throat of his attacker and he was thrown backwards, a spray of blood misting across Evnis’ face. Evnis pushed up to his elbows, saw the other man bearing down upon him, sword raised.
My sword, where’s my sword? His hand scrabbled around in the grass. I’m going to die. Should have waited for the warband.
The man standing over him with his sword raised paused, his expression shifting from a victory grin to fear, then he was thrown backwards by a mass of fur and snapping teeth. Hands reached down to help Evnis stand, Braith glaring at him. Rafe ran past, his sword stabbing down into the body that was wrestling with two hounds. Rafe’s sword came away bloody, the warrior’s feet drumming on the ground, then falling still.
‘My thanks,’ Evnis said as he retrieved his sword. Braith nodded curtly, his face still tight with anger. They were alone on this side of the hold; their enemy had fled southwards. Behind them Glyn thundered up, a hundred warriors following. He dragged on his reins to stop before them.
‘Horses,�
� Evnis shouted and in short moments he was mounted and leading his warband around the curve of the hold’s wall. Ahead he saw men running down the hill onto flatter marshland. He glimpsed a river, boats upon it.
‘After them,’ he yelled, pointing his sword and kicking his horse onwards.
They galloped down the hill, a summer storm; a few of those they were chasing were overtaken and ridden down. The ground rapidly turned to sucking mud, though. One horse fell, screaming as its leg broke. Swearing, Evnis dismounted, picking his way carefully through the spongy ground. Ahead of him men were leaping into boats, pushing away from the bank with long poles and oars. A few paces away one of his men fell with an arrow in the face.
Evnis paused, slipping behind the cover of a draping willow. He was calmer now, had a grip on the emotion that had overwhelmed all reason earlier. Think. Don’t repeat your mistakes, rushing in and nearly getting yourself killed.
His warriors were following him, dismounted and threading their way through the marshes. Some had forged ahead and reached the riverbank, swords clashing with a few stragglers. Another arrow sent one of his men spinning. Rafe appeared beside him, the two hounds flanking him. The fur of their jaws was matted with blood. Braith was a shadow further away, his back to an alder, stepping out to shoot an arrow at the retreating warriors. A man on a boat screamed and toppled into the water.
A new sound grew, rising above the cries of battle along the riverbank. Evnis looked back to see riders crest the slope, sunlight glinting on iron. He felt a moment of panic.
This is not a good place to be trapped, between horsemen and marshland.
Then he saw the black and gold, Rhin’s banner of the broken branch whipped by the wind. Morcant rode at their head, taking in the scene and riding hard for the marsh. Even as Evnis watched, he saw Rhin’s disgraced ex-first-sword rein in his mount and slip from his saddle, drawing his sword without breaking a stride. Grudgingly Evnis felt some admiration for his skill.
Not like me, rolling in the grass and losing my sword. He determined then and there to resume his sword training in the Rowan Field.
Morcant was yelling orders, pointing, a few score riders peeling off to ride back up the hill and through the tower wall gates. Then he saw Evnis.
‘What’s going on?’ Morcant called out to him above the din, striding over.
No ‘my King’, no bend of the knee? ‘Your hold appears to have been attacked,’ Evnis said, not wanting to talk about Halion and Vonn right now. An arrow whistled through the air, skittering off Morcant’s helm. He staggered a step, then joined Evnis behind the cover of the willow. His eyes glanced along the riverbank, then he froze.
‘My SILVER,’ he screamed, eyes bulging.
Evnis followed his gaze, saw a flat-bottomed boat quite a way down the river, a large chest sat within it. Another boat drifted between them, a handful of warriors rowing frantically. One was kneeling, bow drawn. An arrow leaped from the bow, thudded into the chest of one of Evnis’ men.
Camlin.
Behind him Vonn stood, staring back at him. Evnis scanned the riverbank, chose a route and stepped out from the willow tree, began to zigzag across the marshy ground. He reached a firmer patch and began to run, heard footsteps behind him, but his eyes were fixed upon Vonn. His son returned the gaze.
Evnis reached the riverbank, leaped over fallen bodies, swerved past two men locked in a knife-fight and then the way was clear, but the bank was blocked by a snarl of osier and sedge. His face twisted in frustration, staring at the last boat in the convoy rapidly disappearing around a bend in the river.
Camlin, Halion and Vonn were in it, as well as a couple of other warriors, one of them the biggest man Evnis had seen since Tull. But he only had eyes for Vonn. He stood and watched him, eyes pleading. Vonn gazed flatly back. Dully he saw Camlin nock another arrow and draw its feathers to his ear, aiming straight at Evnis. He just stood there, exhausted, heartbroken, for a moment not caring if he lived or died.
‘Do it,’ he whispered.
Then Vonn reached down and put a restraining hand on Camlin’s arm.
They shared another few heartbeats, then Vonn disappeared around the bend in the river. Evnis just stood there, staring, the world numb around him. Distantly he heard Morcant screaming in something close to apoplexy.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
MAQUIN
Maquin slipped over the wall and climbed down the rope. Muscles in his stomach clenched and he felt a dull ache begin to pulse from the wound in his belly, knotted and scarred now. A reminder of the Otherworld. He wasn’t concerned as he felt well now, had sparred in the weapons court and resumed something of his old training as a pit-fighter, and although he knew that he wasn’t back to pit health, he was close. He knew his body, knew his limitations. His feet touched the ground and he crouched, adjusted the kit bag strapped across his back, gave the rope a shake to tell the warrior behind him that it was safe to follow, then padded across the road to an abandoned building. Alben and three other warriors were already there, waiting.
It was a dark night, no moon, clouds a thick veil before the stars.
A perfect night for sneaking about.
Another warrior crept across the deserted road towards them.
It was a ten-night since Fidele had told him about the suggested night raids. He’d volunteered at once. Alben had been chosen to lead them. At first Maquin had been uncertain about that choice; Alben seemed old and frail, but a few moments together in the weapons court had disabused Maquin of that notion. Old he was. Frail he was not. He’d touched a blade to Maquin’s throat more than once, and yesterday put him on his back. Of course, Maquin had returned the favour triple-fold, apart from the throwing. He liked the old warrior and so held back for the most part. He suspected Alben knew, just by the occasional raised eyebrow. But it was training, no more, and he was well past having to prove himself to anyone. Unless Fidele was watching, then he found himself behaving like a warrior just come fresh from his Long Night.
What has happened to me?
He had never felt like this, never felt so many things as a result of just one person. Calm, even serene when he was with her, as if the world stopped when she entered the room, an ache in his chest when they were apart, excited when he knew he was close to seeing her. Anxious when he thought of the future.
Out of control. That is how I feel. Unable to control my feelings, and from when I could first walk my da taught me to take command of my emotions. Taught me that is the way of the warrior. He’d seen forty-two summers come and go, and this was the first time he’d ever experienced this. He grinned in the darkness. I like it, though it scares me.
They waited in silence, another warrior joining them, then one more. The last one.
They huddled close together.
‘We go now, a long road. Silence until we reach the forest. Any questions?’ Alben whispered.
They set off in single file, Alben leading the way, Maquin taking rearguard, eight men slipping through the abandoned town of Ripa, giving wide berth to the bonfires that marked Vin Thalun guard posts. If the fires had not been burning Maquin would still have been able to find and avoid most of them by the drunken singing.
We are under siege, but these Vin Thalun are not made for such things. They are too savage, bred to strike hard and fast, win or retreat. A siege requires patience, planning, organization. Lykos is up to this task, maybe, but the rest?
Soon they were out of the town and into the long grass that undulated all the way to the Sarva forest. A breeze off the bay soughed through the grass. Maquin was sweating when they reached the first trees of the forest. They paused here, drank from water skins and rested a few moments. Maquin looked back, the lights from Ripa’s walls and tower twinkling like starlight in the distance. He thought of Fidele in that tower, remembered their parting, could still taste her lips.
I feel alive again, as if I’ve woken from a long sleep. From a nightmare. He grinned again. He found he’d been doing that a l
ot since he’d woken from his fever. Although in this new world some of the monsters from my nightmare have followed me. He thought of Lykos, a dark rage bubbling up from the place where it always simmered deep within him, growing as he thought of the pain the Vin Thalun had brought Fidele.
Alben put a hand on his shoulder and he had to stop himself reaching for a knife.
‘You’ll see her again,’ Alben whispered to him, too quiet for anyone else to overhear.
‘How far to Balara?’ Maquin asked.
‘Half a day’s ride. So for us a day and a half of hard walking.’
‘We’d best be off, then,’ Maquin said.
‘Aye. Fidele tells me you’re accustomed to forests.’
‘You could say that. I served with the Gadrai in Forn.’
‘Well then, join me at the front, and let’s see if we can make Balara in a day.’
With that they set off into the forest, the trees engulfing them like a dark cloak.
‘There it is,’ Alben said, pointing. Balara was visible through a gap in the trees, a crumbling stone ruin built upon a tree-shrouded hilltop by ancient giants.
In another lifetime, when the world was a different place.
It was a little past dawn, sunrise gleaming upon the eastern wall of the ancient fortress. All eight of them stood and stared for a while. Maquin saw a wain slowly roll up a track to the east, pulled by auroch, six Vin Thalun riding with it. They were not good horsemen. No one said a word as the wain and riders disappeared within the broken archway of what had once been the grand entrance to the fortress.
‘We didn’t come all this way for nothing, then,’ Alben murmured.
They’d near enough run the whole way, taking them just over a day. Maquin’s body ached in a thousand places, but it felt good to be out in the wide open, no walls, only trees and sky. ‘Get some sleep,’ Alben said to them all. ‘I’ll take first watch. We’ll move at sunset.’
Maquin dipped his fingers into black mud beside a stream, wiped streaks across his cheeks, rubbed the rest across the pommel and cross-guards of his sword and knives. The others were performing similar acts, going through their own rituals that reassured them before the prospect of battle. Maquin reached inside his leather jerkin and pulled out a piece of red velvet. Fidele had given it to him when they parted, cut from the hem of her dress.
